“The Theory of “Subjectivity in Moby-Dick”
the truth, let us do
it miscarried the primitive
for a deviant, at first delay
The ... ous author
Clear the whole
Clear where you wrote "that and what"
No blood is good blood
purchased with a Franklin.
all confess to whole adventures.
Having little or no subjectivity
brought into the world carrying cargo
or amor or moral precept to the street.
Mount it high, this substitute for piracy
sought and Lenten, mid-town is the Bath
pooled and previous
Were lovers there
Avenues, when awkward, peep, but the
haunches and plaster tied to what is gone:
Once marketed for drakes, take whims
or experiments: metaphysical procedures
wedded to You (subjectivity, again)
The dreary sleep in the governor's cottage
amazing us with handfuls of silence,
refusals of purpose:
Will Narcissus result in carnage, we should
shout that something is said about Image.
or something of everykind whatsoever say "myself."
& shards. Their huge night behind them
when "I," so to speak, "go to sea,"
I go by the royal dumb-down in the foyer
to make rosy shadows. Of you.
The tallest assume "you" with concoctions
of identity, but ever-alert, what about
-roon blood, old sea captains, cup & punch,
other kinds of servants of metaphysical
Whereas, "you" are never heard of.
Constant stands alone, free in pure air of stern
axioms far more private for their
atmosphere, Pythagorean violations.
Their stink of Fate that dogs me.
What better Whole is bloody as those stagnant
parts of circumstances which being
curated means the state, the ship
of state, Constant.
inhaled reaching, followed by or tucked
in as most stop at this place.
A place of departure where headrests, sleep,
originals are required: cement
banisters merge public and private lives,
how can order disguise the bows, bowsprits, etc.
Frost lay. I said to myself, as towards
identity and self-naming, lower your bag
and cover the darkness toward
expensive pavements and pumice the
secret inwardness. It's all self, all
society, dreary streets and buses on from
here and hereafter. Moving
absorbs many of the works in public, so
encased in ashes, in poor boxes.
A common place. I muttered bathetic
entertainment by the weeping negro church.
I suppose I might look enough, seem
sufficient that tenting indoors, that judgment
more than ever divides. Matchless
is the miracle on the outside where the
window frosts only one-way. Northern
lights raise the dead man within, silken his
Now fiery, more of this scrape and plenty.
Defaced by a system you could
unaccountably call the narrative portion
of the History of Art. Conflated with roadside
attractions, here's an idea as long
on authenticity as poems from a unified
Sublime as an oath --to be defaced,
unrecognizable, calling down
interpretation on oneself. Trembling
ivory, aggregates of artists' designs
aged and tinctured. With such low
sojourns, the long-arm of weeping
tyranny harvesting what years
afterwards entered the category "rare."
This mark, this soporific, that
clever way to make the product
look big. Take a seat. Good green
steaks, cramped and ragged, they
seed her. Frozen jackets, a good
full six days to express identity
by sleeping two in a bed. I'll try.
the jumping off place to the outer
seas, the weather-side of structure,
unknown companions; evil suppositions
by Sunday awaken conclusions.
The clutter of implements mounted here
turn utility to historic trophy
to faceless, headless objects of conversation
barwise. What belongs to what? A pasture
for slander, this is me and my parts.
sight, hence built on rumor
It's time. Time divides sacred and
profane in this harbor. Young marriage,
damaged children. Satisfactory as a harpooneer,
I am never satisfied to hurry over
remembering pantaloons at last made
a good offing. It was cold.
His cheeks and marks might
be noticed, inklings of elsewhere,
canary effects of tomorrow. Squares
have a sameness, yet do they extend
or segregate ignorance? Patterns
provide a means, a similar manner
previous to frogs and strangers.
A polite manner can be a pattern, too.
An idol in ashes, a puffed out chest,
a blurry reading of the skin.
Your head. In the dark "I" yell
for coffin, for angels, for cloudy
reassurance because "I" have yet
to stop my old broken reading
that betrays "me" now.
Reprinted from Representing Absence ( Los Angeles: Green Integer, 2004). Copyright ©2004 by Deborah Meadows. Reprinted by permission of Green Integer Press.